


fifth ave // a.i.

by enduphre



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Homeless, F/M, Romance, Sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enduphre/pseuds/enduphre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Cause it's not a homeless life for me,</p><p>It's just I'm home less than I'd like to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -Olivia Cooke (Emma DeCody from Bates Motel) is imagined as Farah  
> -Chapters will get longer

I have passed through the same street of Manhattan an innumerable amount of times. I see the same faces, shops, and parked cars every day. This street, in particular, is known for its abundance of homeless men and women. The sight is truly heartbreaking. The hopeful, discouraged, and lonely faces of the poor fill the street.

It's hard to walk past these sad faces and ignore all of them every day on my way to work, which is exactly why I don't do that and plan on never doing so. My mother always said, "no matter what they say, you don't need to act hard and tough just because you are from Manhattan." She was a lovely woman, so of course, I am going to listen to her and do what she had always wanted me to do. I have gotten to know all of them, and they're all genuine and lovely. There hasn't been a new face for months.

Until today.

-

Today started off as it usually does. I woke up at 7:00 AM, put on the first clean band t-shirt I could find, a pair of sweatpants, and my treasured vans. There's no need for fancy attire when you're going to stand behind a counter at Academy Records for six hours. Normally, I get to work 30 minutes early, just in case I run into someone new on the streets.

If I were to predict a new homeless person to come to this street, I would always imagine them being an old or middle-aged man or woman. I would have never expected a boy who looked barely old enough to live on his own to be huddled against the wall of Academy Records with a blanket and an empty jar reading a plea for money

The words, "just got out of an emotionally abusive relationship...anything can help...please..." were written sloppily on a piece of cardboard

His skin tone was ghostly, as if he had never experienced heat. With blotches and tired eyes, assuming this boy had been crying would be an accurate assumption. His slightly curled, caramel-like hair was tousled in every direction and ended at the very end of his eyebrows. I considered approaching him, but decided that now would not be the best time.

For the time being, I gave him a smile and a small wave. Making eye contact with him was like making eye contact with a plain, white vase: the vase shows no emotion. No personality. No life. The boy simply watched as I walked past him and into the building. Monday mornings aren't usually busy, so I have moments where I can just sit down, put my legs up on the counter, and go on my laptop or read.

Now, normally, this would be very easy to do. Today, though, I had a man watching me through the window. His eyes no longer looked emotionless. His eyes showed hope, desire, and possibly even happiness. After almost a minute of eye contact through a window, I smiled slightly and motioned for him to come into the store. He looked down, almost as if hiding the tinted red color slowly filling his cheeks, and walked into the store.


	2. Chapter 2

More than once, he hesitated before finally grabbing the door handle and walking into the store. He was dressed in layer upon layer of flannels and winter coats. His gloves cut off, showing his cold, red finger tips.

"You're freezing, hang on. Do you like coffee? We have hot chocolate too," I said while rushing to get up.

"I..uh..." he mumbled. His voice was hardly audible. "I think I...I think I want hot chocolate." He looked down at his demolished, dirt-covered Converse through the midst of this painfully slow conversation.

Within seconds, I had returned with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. "Mom used to say adding two mini peppermint sticks makes the hot chocolate a million times better," I said while trying to give him a smile. Not once had he looked up. He simply reached out for the drink and began to walk away.

"Wait, you can stay! You do want to stay in the heat, right? There's no rush, really," I said. He paused halfway, remained there for several seconds, until he finally turned around and looked me in the eyes. His eyes showed no hope. No desire. Once again, I was looking at a plain, white vase. Although this time, he did show one emotion. Pain. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes if he made a single blink. He pursed his lips to keep them from shaking, took a shaky breath, and spoke. "What are you doing? Why are you being nice?" His voice quavered. He didn't care anymore. One after the other, the tears streamed down his cheeks and onto his shirt. "The last person who was nice to me left me in heartache. This is all just part of the plan, right? You'll be nice to me, make me feel like someone actually gives a shit about me, and then you'll leave. You'll leave right when I'd think that you were my friend. Someone I could trust. Someone I could rely on for support. Then I'd be left with nothing but an empty jar and cold, heartless stares from the fortunate."

I was speechless. Completely, utterly speechless. I tried to get my words out. I tried to tell him that wasn't the case at all. All I could get out were the words, "I'm so sorry.."

We stayed like this for what felt like forever while we watched each other. I choked down the lump in my throat as his cold stare settled into a blank expression. Finally, I spoke. "I understand if you don't want to trust me. You have every innumerable right to walk right out this door. But I do want you to know this: I would never treat you the way you have been treated in the past. All I wanted to do was make you feel like you didn't have to go through this alone. I just wanted to help. I understand if you don't want my help."

Now I was the one looking down at my shoes in fear that, if I looked up, I would meet gaze with the man shooting daggers out of his eyes. He took a small step forward and sat down in a nearby chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, as if trying to make a decision.

"We don't even know each others names," he mumbled.

With a slight hesitation, I spoke. "I'm Farah Lincoln."

He looked up at me and rested his hands under his chin. He stared for a while until he said, "I'm Ashton Irwin."


End file.
